A Tale of Gondor and Rohan
by Queen-Lucy-Pevensie
Summary: Orcs are running wild over the fields of Rohan and the Riddimark is hard pressed to keep from being taken over by the remnants of Souron's army. Aragorn is feeling the pressures of bing king. When the becons are lit, he and his army ride to Rohan's aid..
1. Chapter 1

-1Chapter 1

The night was cold and the restless wind blew white petals from the tree in Gondor's court. Aragorn stood before it staring into the sky with weary eyes. Amazing that those same stars shone down on him but a year ago when all the armies of Mordor were loosed and Gondor fought desperately for its existence. There came a soft rustle behind him but Aragorn knew it so well that he didn't turn to it. The voice of Queen Arwen broke the silence.

"My love, you look tired. Does the night trouble you again?" She laid a slim hand on his shoulder and he took it in his, brushing a kiss gently across the skin and turning towards her. In her arms she held tightly rapped their son no more than a month old. Aragorn smiled gently down at his son with fatherly pride as he answered his bride.

"It troubles me less and less, but still it burdens my heart." He returned his gaze to the stars, his voice quavering. "I look to Elbereth for wise counsel and a hopeful peace but she is silent tonight."

"You still bare guilt of what fate you sent Frodo into, but it was his choice and his alone that took him to Mount Doom — and had he not, the ring would be in the hands of Souron and there would be not hope for Middle Earth. Shake the guilt from your shoulders and look upon your son." She shifted the sleeping babe into his father's arms.

Aragorn smiled once more. The petals of the white tree eddied gracefully in the night wind around the child's head as if forming him a crown. Moonlight cast shadows upon the babe's eyelids and Aragorn pulled his cloak around his son's tiny body. For a moment his cares were forgotten.

Just then a guard came up from one of the lower citadels with sword drawn. "Lord! King Eomer of Rohan cries for aid! The beacons were seen lit not but five minutes ago; Do we ride lord?"

Aragorn sighed and gently slipped the babe back into his mother's waiting embraces. "We ride, Elthmon. Prepare the horses and gather the horsemen." Elthmon ran to obey but Aragorn turned back to Arwen, wearily drawing his sword. "The scum of Mordor are not yet obliterated and while they still roam there shall be no peace in my heart; such are the burdens of a King."

"Did you not know it to be so from when you still stumbled barefoot as a child over the paving stones of Rivendell?"

"Yes. I knew it even then." Aragorn glanced longingly towards the stars but no voice descended to give counsel. He began towards the great gate at the end of the courtyard, turning back only to bid Arwen inside before the babe became chilled, and he walked out of the gate with head erect on tired shoulders.

On the third citadel Aragorn was brought his steed. The music in the taverns still rang softly but the clink of armor was quickly smothering it. Horses stamped impatiently held by young stable hands who were awed at the sight of the assembling men at arms. Aragorn himself — who wore now a crowned helm and gold breastplate along with other such armaments — stood alone overseeing the process.

Pages scampered back and forth on errands and the like, busy with their work as slowly men began to seep into the streets, mounted and armed. Soon the procession began their narrow way down to the first citadel and out of the great gates now repaired of the damage caused by the Dark Army's battering ram.

Such a grand sight! Standards were flown from every tower of Gondor to see them off as they marched in long ranks with Aragorn at the head, the great banner that Arwen had so carefully sewn a year-and-a-half ago flying from his spear.

Eomer paced the great hall of Meduseld impatiently. His sister could do nothing for him accept for watch anxiously from the side. A page stepped hesitantly into the room and made his way through the shadows to her side, afraid of the king's mood.

"Did you have the beacons lit?" Eowyn asked in a whisper.

The page nodded twice, keeping his eyes averted from hers.

Eowyn glanced worriedly towards her brother. "Good. Though Aragorn and Eomer are friends, my brother's pride does not allow him to call for aid — and if we do not, it shall not only be the Riddermark that diminishes in numbers…." She left her sentence unfinished, cringing at the thought. "The orcs remaining yet in the land are becoming braver. If help does not come soon, Rohan shall be just another empty waist riddled with the dead and strewn with ashes. But help must come; it must!"

Eowyn bid the page, who had been standing nervously at her side, to leave and he scampered away. Hesitantly she stepped from her place aside one of the great pillars, her thoughts racing. Dare she approach him at such a time? His mood was foul after news of the latest attack on the riders of the Riddermark where the lives of at least thirty good men where snuffed from the land's archives. But she could not bare to see him suffer so, agonizing, mourning and raging about the loss night and day. Pushing her own fear aside, she approached him.

"My lord, my brother… will you not at least eat a morsel or drink a mouthful? Maybe I could call for the minstrels and the Bards; surely you miss their music and gayety?" Reaching his side she gently placed a hand on his shoulder but he shrugged it aggressively aside.

"Never, my sister! Never until the land is healed and my people's grieving at an end! Long have we suffered and as King I must suffer too! For what is a king who will live in luxury while his people starve: would laugh and sing while his people mourn?"

"No less a King for lifting his spirits so as to be able to rule his people with a wise mind and kind heart and with his laughter bring joy and hope back to their hearts."

But Eomer turned his face hastily away from hers, a scowl spread across it. "My mind has already been set and try thee not to detour it. We march on the orcs!"

Eowyn gasped. "But my lord! This is most foolish a thing that you ever could do! You do not know where the orcs take dwelling and even if you did they still number far above our own. You ride to your death if you go!"

"Never the less my mind will not sway; my decision stands! I, along with the remains of the Riddermark and those willing of my people, will march to war!"

"No!" Eowyn gasped and drew back into the shadows appalled and in fright, leaving her brother standing alone in the golden halls of meduseld, a lonely figure bathed in a single pillar of moonlight that descended into the room through an opening in the ceiling covered over with rock crystal. Making her way swiftly to the battlements she halted beneath the flying emblem of Rohan, a horse running over green fields and gazed up at it and beyond where she could see the light of the first beacon burning bright into the sky. Staring at it with wishful eyes, one could almost picture her in the forests of Lorien, golden hair streaming behind her in the breeze. And as she stood there with gown billowing about her, she whispered a prayer:

"Hasten Aragorn. Hasten for the sake of my brother and the lives of many; ride swiftly to us, ere my brother rides to his death!" And the wind took her prayer and bore it to the skies.

The same wind swirled about Aragorn as he rode forth from Gondor to aid his friend in Rohan's need. And bore upon it came what seemed to Aragorn's keen ears a light whisper, but he could not make out the words. Behind him as he looked back over one shoulder towered Minas Tirith and it's seven citadels of white stone that glistened beneath moonlight. Before him stretched plains running long and far before ever reaching Rohan and the halls of Meduseld. The weary burden he had felt upon his shoulders earlier that night had not grown less but now weighted his mind all the more and he glanced at the stars again, hoping to take comfort in their ever watchful gaze. But none came and the night continued as dark and heart-burdening as it had begun.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The night was chill as Aragorn led his battalion beneath the trees of the Grey wood. Even so, Aragorn could not help but feel stuffy as he rode Brëgo through the thickly growing trees -- and it wasn't just the closeness of the forest that made him feel so uneasy; he felt weighted, bogged down by the pressures of his people, the pressures of being king. He had fulfilled his destiny after the war of the ring was over, and had become king as had been foretold -- the heir of Isildor had returned -- but now he wondered if being a king was all he had ever thought it would be. More and more often he looked to the stars for answers, but less and less did they give them. He was finding no comfort in their counsel, and only his Queen and their new son kept him from leaving Gondor once more to find the pleasures in solitude he once had known as a wanderer.

An owl called, waking him back to the present. Her surveyed the land around him with experienced eyes, scrutinizing even the shadows. One never knew what evil thing could lurk in the deep shades of night. The song of a night bird floated over the stiff night breeze, as the sound of leathery wings spoke of bats in the forest foliage. Behind him, lanterns were lit along the battalion, casting patterns of light onto the ground and the surrounding trees and lighting the way ahead of him.

A horse screamed behind him. Aragorn's head snapped around. A shout rang out as a rider came up next to him. There was fear in the man's eyes.

"We're under attack, sire!"

Brëgo shied, pawing the ground nervously. Aragorn reined him in. "What is it? Who attacked us?"

"Orcs, sire! From the forest. They attacked our rear and are working their way forward."

Sounds of battle drifted to the front of the line. Aragorn turn Brëgo towards the sound and drew his sword. Brëgo surged forward, his muscles rippling as he ran. Screams and cries of pain rent the air, and the guttural battle cries of orcs roared between the darkened trees. All around him lanterns were sputtering out. One rider's mount reared before he could get the lantern snuffed, and the lantern fell from his hands and shattered. Flames licked at the dead leaves scattered over the ground, and spread to the trees, climbing them like burning ivy. Left and right, blood spattered riders lurched out of the shadows trying frantically to calm their horses, but the scent of orc was on the air and horses continued running. Some lost their riders. These fell to the ground with sickening _thuds_ and slowly returned to their feet, looking to Aragorn for direction. Only the battle hardened Brëgo kept his head during the confusion.

Aragorn looked to his men, pointed the wounded to a place among the trees where hopefully they would be safe until he returned, and gathered the rest of his horsemen about him. Towards the end of the battalion the orcs were ravaging the last of the riders who stood to fight them. In the light now cast by the burning trees the sight was a massacre. Riders lay strewn about the forest like piles of dead leaves. The orcs have no respect for the dead: they leapt on the corpses, pillaging whatever loot they could grab from the bodies of the lifeless soldiers. Some even took their pleasures in severing arms and other limbs.

Aragorn could feel the heat of battle rise in his chest. He saw the scene through eyes tinted red.

"Charge!"

Aragorn urged Brëgo into the fray, his movements becoming one with the horse's. As Brëgo kicked, Aragorn, swung. As his mount reared, Aragorn slashed. Stroke and stroke, he battled his way into the center of the roiling melee, his blood pounding in his ears. Men of his guard fought around him, desperately trying to lessen the number of orcs pouring through the trees. Some orcs fell, but were quickly replaced. This was no ordinary orc scavenging party.

"Retreat!" Aragorn called, when the heat in his head had ebbed away enough for him to understand how badly they were outnumbered. His men were falling left and right! This ambush was not an accident. This ambush had laid in wait for him to ride to Rohan's aid! It had been set so that he and his men would never come to Eomer's rescue! Aragorn swung his sword and turned his mount west, urging him out of the battling orcs. "Retreat! Retreat! Rally, all ye men of Gondor, to me! To me! To me!"

Around him he heard shouts of acknowledgement… and more cries of death. The orcs didn't plan to let any of the men of Gondor pass.

"To me! To me!" he called, severing an orc limb as he passed it. Horsemen reared out of the dark, flocking around their leader, torn, bloodied and disheveled. A great number of the battalion lay strewn in lifeless piles about the forest floor, but Aragorn had not the time to consider the loss of life. His immediate attention was drawn to the need to preserve it. Later they could mourn the dead.

"Ride! Flee to the west! Retreat! Retreat!"

Aragorn placed himself at the end of the fleeing men, between them and the threat behind them. Monsters poured from the shadows like water pouring from a spring. They sneered at him, and in the glowing light of the burning forest their faces looked more grotesque than they'd ever looked before. Blood was streaked across their faces, spattered over their limbs. Their vicious maws broke in evil grins, their yellowed teeth sharpened to fangs.

Aragorn faced them.

For a moment of uncertainty all was silent. Not one sound broke the stillness save for the crackling of dieing wood as fire licked at the leaves overhead. The heat surrounding them made sweat run into Aragorn's eyes and he longed to wipe it away.

And then a branch just overhead came crashing to the ground!

The spell was broken!

Orcs rushed forwards, leaping over the burning log with ease. They swarmed about Aragorn, slicing at Brëgo with their long knifes, and hacking at Aragorn's legs. Aragorn tried to pull himself away from their clinging hands, but orc claws dug into his pant legs and his flesh, drawing blood from the many wounds. Aragorn swung at them with all his might!

"Brëgo, run!"

Brëgo responded to his rider, leaping forward in powerful strides. Aragorn pounded at the orcs grasping at his clothing. Suddenly Brëgo broke free. The monsters swarmed behind him like flies on a dung heap, running, retreating from Aragorn's blade, advancing. Brego kept just ahead of them…

Aragorn felt light headed. He swayed in his seat, the trees swirling about him. The sounds seemed to be muted to his ears… he could hear them, but they were muffled as if coming from underground. He grabbed the saddle horn to steady himself and looked on through the trees. The light cast by the fire made all the shadows dance in his vision. Brëgo kept running. Slowly, slowly Aragorn realized that he had left the orcs behind. Ahead of him there were only the trees, behind him the trees and the fire, leaping into the night sky.

Brëgo nickered softly and Aragorn patted his neck. "Brëgo… Brëgo…" he whispered the name softly as if it were the only thing holding him back from unconsciousness. Brëgo continued forward, jogging through the trees at an easy pace until they had left the burning trees behind them.

Soon he heard voices; not the guttural, evil, grating sound of orc voices, but the heavy, familiar sound of men talking among the trees.

A cry rings out.

"Aragorn has returned!"

A man, one of his soldiers comes over to help him out of the saddle. Aragorn sways, his hand falling to his leg where it becomes covered with blood.

"He's wounded! A healer, quickly!"

More hands reach out for him. Someone took Brëgo's reigns and led him away. Aragorn wrestled himself out of their grasping hands.

"No!" he said sternly. "No! We haven't the time for petty luxuries. My healing will have to wait! The orcs are still behind us, and we have a long way to go yet before we ever reach Rohan! Eomer called for aid, and we will answer!"

He whistled through his teeth and ordered, "Brëgo, quickly!" Brëgo was brought back to him and he mounted, wincing with pain as his wounds came in touch with the soft leather. His legs felt like they were on fire.

It took only a few minutes for the riders left of his battalion mounted, or found someone to double mount with, and they began riding west again. There were still many soldiers living, but oh so many dead. Aragorn thought back on the dead. They had trusted him, had followed him… only to be slaughtered by orcs before ever they reached their destination. He thought again of the orcs; that attack was planned. It had to be! There was no way it could have been a surprise. His scouts would have come back to inform him, but he assumed they were now dead, burning along with the corpses of other valiant men whom he was forced to leave behind.

And fire.

It was such a destroyer, and such a comforter as well. It would burn, it would kill, it would raze that part of the forest to the ground, and with the trees his former soldiers also would burn, turned to ashes from which all men came. From dust to dust.

But cremation, that was too good a ceremony for those orcs! It should not be that they were buried the same as his honored men! It should not be! Aragorn clenched his fists and gripped the saddle horn firmly. He kept himself from swaying unsteadily with the thoughts of what was yet to come.

They would be avenged. All his soldiers' blood would be accounted for. If the rumors were true, then Rohan too was stricken with the plague of orc flesh wandering freely and slaughtering as they went. But Rohan _would_ have aid, as was promised. And his soldiers _would_ be avenged, as they deserved. After all that was what they were marching for, what they were marching _to._

Aragorn returned his thoughts to the task ahead. First they had to _get_ to Rohan, and that was yet many miles away. They were still in the grey wood, and for all he knew the grey wood was swarming with orcs. His keen senses turned back to watching and listening…

Must get there first… alive, preferably…

* * *

Eomer paced the halls of Meduseld uneasily. There was so much to think about. Already his men were preparing for the ride that lie just a night away… a restless night. He would find no sleep in that night.

He sighed and ran his fingers through his blond hair and thought back on all that had happened within the last few years. Life was so short. It felt like he had done so little in the time he was given, that he felt almost ashamed. What great deeds had he done worthy of song and praise? Yet there were tales sung of his valor every night around the fires in houses of his people, even in his own hall! He felt like they were singing lies… Not that it didn't please him. He liked the fact that his people looked up to him, looked to him for wisdom and guidance… it was just that he felt like he didn't deserve it.

A shadow flickered in his peripheral vision. Ah! Eowyn had returned from her watch on the battlements. He doubted that the time she had implored him earlier that night would be her last time. He allowed himself a smile. No, it most certainly had not been her last! She would keep coming to him for the remainder of the night, until he was out of Rohan's gates, and even then her thoughts would be beseeching him to turn around and return to her. But he would not. He _could_ not! For all the songs and tales told of him, he did not feel that he was worthy of the praise given him, that he should stand in his halls of luxury while his riders died on the fields at the hands of the ravaging orcs. That was not the way of a King! A king would ride first into battle and be the last to retreat. A king would look first to his people, placing their comforts before his own. That was what a _true_ king would do, and that's exactly what Eomer, King of Rohan would do!

Eomer lifted his horse-plumed helm from the stand in front of him and looked at it. _IT_ was the helm of a true king. Eomer did not feel a true king, but he donned the helm and reached for the sword, a sword that had belonged to his mother's brother, a sword worthy of a better man. Eomer buckled it to his side and reached for the breastplate and the greaves. These were more common, his own armor made for the wear of everyday battle. These he could don and not feel ashamed. He put them on and sighed again. Morning was not so far away. Morning would be there in only a matter of hours. Soon light would begin to streak across the sky and he would leave these halls, these beloved halls of his family, perhaps never to return to them again.

But he would leave to save his people. Perhaps then he would do deeds he felt worthy of songs. Perhaps this next day he would do deeds he felt the bards could sing of, and he would not feel ashamed.

Setting his face in a grim frown, he turned and walked towards the door. He must see to his horse before his ride, perhaps his last ride. His stable hands could easily do it for him, but the smell and feel of horse always seemed to calm his nerves. He would do it himself, and by morning he would ride.

Ride for his people…

Ride to victory…

Or ride to his death.


	3. Chapter 3

(Sorry I haven't posted any new chapters in so long. Life has become busy and I have had to shift with it or break. But I have this to continue this story. Originally chapter 3 was going to be longer than this, but I've run kinda drie on ideas lately so... I'll keep fishing around in my mind for what to put next, but any ideas for what should happen are more than welcome.)

Chapter 3

Eowyn paced the battlements of Meduseld uneasily. It was still early morning, the fingers of a grey dawn just beginning to reach westward. She knew it was only a matter of hours until her brother rode heedlessly to certain death. And he _would_ die, she had no doubt… unless somehow he was intercepted. But how? The beacons had only been lit the night before and Aragorn was still several days' ride away from the golden hall.

Eowyn brushed a lock of pale gold hair away from her face and closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the newly rising sun flood over her and calm her nerves. _Don't let yourself get overly troubled,_ she told herself quietly, _or your mind will remain unclear and no answers will come._ She breathed in deep, allowing her lungs to fill with the chilled dawn air, and then exhaled all the way. _You must not let your heart make all your decisions, or you will find them faulty. Remember how Eomer must feel. He is a true warrior, but what is a warrior that cannot protect his people? He must feel he is shamed to watch his people die as he stands by helpless __— not a king, not a warrior… not even a man._

Eowyn looked back towards the great oak door behind her, leading into the ancient halls of Meduseld, still chilled from the shades of evening. Behind her there lay a deep foreboding, a sense of dread that longed to reach out and clutch her heart within its vice grip… already the tips of its fingers were searching for her soul…. She shivered. Why must all be war and death? But would she have it any other way, she wondered? She thought of the sword lying locked in its trunk in her room, and the shield baring the white horse racing over green fields, of the armor carefully arrayed on its stand in the corner opposite her bed. Now it seemed an age already since she had used them. She'd promised herself then that she would never use them again, but always it seemed they called out to her with phantom voices, telling her of the grandeur waiting, of the adventures that could be hers if she would just reach out to it… Sometimes the voices were so hard to resist…

Soft footsteps sounded behind her. She turned quickly, but not before a gentle arm wrapped itself warmly about her waist. Faramir. Her thoughts had been so clouded lately that she'd hardly thought of her husband. That brought on a sharp pang of guilt… for more than just her absentmindedness. She'd promised him too…

Faramir turned her towards himself and swiped back a lock of her hair. The smile on his face was a sad one. She knew what it meant, could read it before he'd even said a word.

"You're going too, aren't you?" Now his touch seemed cold to her. Why was it that war stole the warmth of everything away? His fingers were soft against her skin, but they were not as gentle as she remembered… of course, her mind had been very distracted lately. Perhaps her memory of his touch was overly exaggerated in her head…

Faramir nodded. His smile was cold too, a wintry sort of thing devoid of the sun that once seemed to pour from it. "Aye," he murmured. "As Eomer's friend and sister-husband I am bound by duty and honor to accompany him. We're to ride as soon as the sun is fully risen. I just came up to say good-bye."

Eowyn felt like she was going to cry, but she held the tears back stubbornly. _A daughter of Kings,_ she reminded herself to help stem the flow, _A daughter of Kings. Do not allow tears to fall and stain your dignity…_ her dignity seemed all she had left now.

She allowed Faramir to pull her close in a farewell embrace. The sun was nearly risen now; they had only minutes left. She wanted to feel warmth, pulled against him as she was - not necessarily physical warmth as much as emotional warmth - but the truth was all she felt was betrayed in every sense of the word. Her Uncle had died, whom she had loved like a father, her brother was leaving her to go fight some fool's war, and now even her husband was riding away and she was left alone, a lonely shadow to mark the battlements of Rohan 'til the day no one would returned, just as they hadn't in the days previous. Such a thought of her future made her cringe. Betrayed.

A horn sounded down below and Eowyn felt Faramir's embrace loosen. She let it; it wouldn't matter whether she clung to him or not, he'd go anyway. She saw the hurt in his eyes when she allowed his hand to fall away, but she didn't let it reach her. After all, he must know how much his leaving hurt her, yet he wasn't even trying to stay; he _wanted to go. So let him!_

"_I will see you soon."_

_She nodded. She didn't trust her voice; she feared if she spoke, her carefully guarded countenance would crumble and she'd break down in sobs. He hesitated… (she noticed that. Maybe he'd stay after all)… and then turned and walked down the stairs. The horn sounded again. By the time it faded away, he was lost to view._

_Turning, she looked back at the darkened doorway. Memories clung to the shadows like fire clings to wood. But like shadows, they were all dim; distorted, happy remnants nearly forgotten in the shades of time. Beyond that doorway laid a very real life, with very real sorrows, and very real pain. But, also beyond that same door, deep within the crisscrossing maze of passages and halls, there was a room. In that room there was a sword, a shield, and armor. What now had she to lose? Once before she'd stood on the edge of the same decision. Once before she'd nothing left to loose but her life. Now she stood there again._

_Straightening her back, she entered through the dark door. A sword would feel good in her hands again._


End file.
